by Joe Ducato

The hooded man opened the door and walked into darkness and warmth.  He saw that the cathedral was empty but for a tall, bent man standing in one of the back pews straightening missalettes, and a woman in front, praying.  The bent man looked up.

“I know you.  You are Garvin, the fruit thief, the one who steals Tovar the Grocer’s fruit.   Everyone knows who you are.”

Garvin lowered the hood and began unbuttoning his long, black coat.

“Tovar and I are friends, good friends.  It was his idea, that I should steal his fruit.  He said it will give me purpose.  He thinks I am sad.”

“I see,” the bent man acknowledged, “Stay as long as you like Mr. Garvin.  Just don’t bother the Saints.”

 “Actually Padre, I came here to confess.”

The bent man looked oddly at the man in the long, black coat.

“But you’ve already said you’re not a thief.”

Garvin had suddenly become preoccupied with something down deep in his coat pocket.  

“I must have left a cherry down there a long time ago.  Nothing left now but a dried-up

pit, and I promised Tovar I wouldn’t waste what I stole.   I really think it’s cold enough to snow.”

Garvin then sat in the pew vacated by the bent man, who had moved on to another pew to straighten missalettes.   Garvin’s eyes drifted across the cathedral to the praying woman.   She hadn’t moved.  He wondered if she had turned to wood and became part of the cathedral.

“You said you have something to confess Mr. Garvin?” 

Garvin looked surprised.

“Me?  Oh, you mean here?  Now?”

The tall man turned his back to Garvin.

“Would this make it easier?”

Garvin laughed and noticed how the flicker of eternal flames at the altar seemed to animate the face of Jesus.

“We’re about the same age, wouldn’t you say Padre?”

 The bent man kept his back turned.

“I would say, more or less.”

 “Did you grow up here Padre?”

 “My whole life.”

“Do you remember, years ago, a guy named Sabino?  Small man, a little bit slow?”

The bent man grinned.

“Yes, he was a parishioner here.”

“I never did know his first name.”

“It was Cos.”

“Cos, wow.  Anyway, remember how Sabino would walk around all day pushing the little cart of his.  I think he made it from an old baby carriage?”

“I do.  He used it to collect the bottles and cans.”

Garvin glanced to the side at a statue of Saint Peter standing under one of the stained-glass windows. 

“My father used to say, ‘Better watch yourself Sonny boy, he called me Sonny boy, or you ‘ll end up just like Sabino.’”

The tall, bent man smiled.

“He wasn’t always that way, Sabino.  I heard he spiked a fever in Korea, in the war.”

“I never knew that.  All I remember is that he was out there, rain or shine with his cans and bottles.”

“He did well for himself.”

“Sure did.  Well, I’ll get right down to the cherry pit now.   Back then I was part of this little youth gang, wanna-be thugs really.  Our leader was a kid called Crisco.  Crisco had a right hook that could fell a moose and he was funny too, real funny, fall on the floor kick your legs kind of funny.  Some people are just like that.”

“The same Crisco who would end up drowning?”

“Same one.  Boy-oh-boy when Crisco told his stories it felt like we’d stuck our heads through the clouds right into Heaven.  Crisco led and we followed.  That’s how it was.  Could we ever laugh it up.  Well, one day this terrible thing happened.  Crisco’s father was working his shift at the mill, the one on Campbell, and in the middle of his shift he dies right there at his work station.  Didn’t even fall over, stayed sitting up.  They didn’t even know he was dead until he fell behind in his work.  He just sat there like he was thinking except he was dead.  Dead as a boot, and just 40 years old.” 

“Shame.”

Garvin leaned forward.

“Thing is, that changed Crisco.  His funny turned to mean.  We all saw it but nobody said anything, then after he buried his father; that night, we took to the streets.  I remember Crisco’s face was granite and his fists were itching to move.  He had this strange look to him.  His eyes were cold like marbles.  We walked down 4^{th Ave.} that night like gun slingers, and along comes little Sabino, walking towards us with his baby carriage just like he’d done a thousand times before.  He had no idea what was coming.  As soon as he gets an inch from Crisco, Crisco leans back and delivers a hay-maker; a hay-maker that could have knocked down a tree, but for no good reason, Sabino stays up.  That made Crisco even madder, so he gives Sabino another one and Sabino stays up again, and then, I can’t believe I’m saying this, we all jumped in like a pack of wolves.  We beat that poor soul and cheered each other on doing it.  I knew it was wrong Padre.  I knew I should have tried to stop it, but I didn’t.  Instead, I became part of it.  I never realized I had that kind of evil in me.  I swear.  Sabino was never the same after that.  You know.  He wouldn’t come out of his house.  He died a shut-in, died with no faith in mankind, because of me.   I’ve been carrying that around for 40 years.”

The bent man turned.  

“Ok, now I’ve got one for you.”

Garvin looked puzzled.

“When I was a young buck in my twenties, I too felt as invincible as a steel deck bridge, plus I had acquired a sharp taste for the liquor.  I was working, delivering transmissions for Dusty’s Garage.  Remember Dusty?  I could lift transmissions like they were made of paper.  I was chock full of the cha-cha as they used to say.  Saturdays was our busiest day, the day all the weekend warriors worked on their cars in their drive-ways.”

Garvin smiled.

“This one Saturday I came to work hung over like a double bed sheet on a limp clothes line, my head as big as a beach ball.  The first delivery of the day was out on the turnpike.  So, there I was, flying down the road in my delivery truck, both windows down and gin still swirling in my brain.  I was passing this big field, when out of the corner of my eye I see this dog, this beautiful black lab, running through the field at an angle, inching towards my truck.  He’s trying to catch it.  I swear, I don’t know what got into me.  I just hit the gas and began racing him.  He’s running at an angle, like I said, getting closer with every stride.”

The bent man swallowed.

“This is hard for me to say.  See, I knew that when that dog got to the edge of the field, he was going to run into the road and into my truck, but I didn’t care.  I just didn’t care.  I was too happy living inside my own head.”

The bent man paused.

“I can still hear that animal rolling around under there.  A defenseless animal and I just sat back and let it happen.  What’s worse, doing something bad or not caring?  I don’t know.  I wish I knew.”

The men were quiet for a long time until Garvin broke the silence.

“Did you ask for forgiveness Padre?”

“I did, and from that day on, I carry dog treats in my pocket.  There are some down there right now.  Every time I come across a dog, I drop one on the sidewalk.  Dogs all over town wait for me to come by.  Sometimes they wait in packs of 2s or 3s.  I promised I would do that for the rest of my life.”

“Who did you promise?”

“God…and me.”

“Do you think I can be forgiven?”

The tall man leaned back.

“It isn’t hard for God to forgive.  He’s God.  Forgiving yourself, that’s another story.  That’s the pit in the cherry, I think”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about Padre.” 

“Don’t think long son.  I knew a guy called Never-ending Ted.  We called him that because whenever Teddy told a story, it felt like it would never end.  We were all riding bicycles one day, 4 of us; me Ted, Jimmy the Baker’s son and a guy named Pickles.  Teddy was in the lead and he was telling one of his stories, just riding the wind, when right in the middle of a sentence, a milk truck runs a stop sign and you know what?  Never-ending Ted ended.  Do good while you can son.”

“Do you really think it will snow?” Garvin asked

“It’s nearly Winter.  It snows in Winter.  That’s why you must plant early, so when Spring comes, beautiful flowers are there to greet you.  Spring is every day in Heaven.”

Garvin stood and pulled the hood over his head.

“Thank you, Padre.”

He then stepped out of the pew, took a step toward the doors and stopped.

“Say Padre? Any chance you could spare a little nip of holy wine?  You know, just to put a little cockle in my doodle-do.  It’s awful cold out there.”

The bent man smiled.

“It tastes better when you grow your own grapes Mr. Garvin.”

Garvin smiled and walked out of the cathedral.

The bent man then headed up the aisle, nodded to the praying woman when he passed, then disappeared behind the altar where he picked up a couple of cleaning bottles, tucked them under his arm and entered the Priest Quarters.  In the quarters, an old Priest with a full head of white hair sat by a window staring out.  The bent man set the bottles down.

“At it again, eh Arthur?” the white-haired priest asked.

“You heard me?”

“A mouse told me.  At least you finished your chores.”

“I think I may have helped.  I told him about Never-ending Ted.” 

 “You’re a true man of God Arthur.”

“Do you forgive me Father?”

“Always.”

“Thank you.  Domani.”

“Domani Arthur.”

The tall, bent man then turned, yanked a heavy coat from the back of a chair, put it on and left the quarters.  He found a side door and slipped onto the cold street.  On a far-off corner, a dog sat patiently waiting.        

Joe Ducato has published his work in Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Wild Violet Magazine, Strata Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, Bangalore Review and Verdad, among others.